


Wetwork

by linguamortua



Series: Strike Me, Strike Anywhere [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brock Rumlow Is Really Nasty, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, HYDRA Trash Party, Hand Jobs, M/M, Massage, Sadist Rumlow, Sauna, Service
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 22:19:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3912706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When Brock Rumlow had first been recruited, he’d stood at lazy ease in the spacious, top-floor office, knowing his value, and told Alexander Pierce levelly, ‘I can fight and I can fuck. Which do you need me to do?’</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wetwork

**Author's Note:**

> The series name is from Richard Siken's poem 'Wishbone', which I was reminded of when I encountered this [fantastic HYDRA playlist.](http://8tracks.com/brawlite/strike-me-strike-anywhere)
> 
> You can add me [on Tumblr](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/).

When Brock Rumlow had first been recruited, he’d stood at lazy ease in the spacious, top-floor office, knowing his value, and told Alexander Pierce levelly, ‘I can fight and I can fuck. Which do you need me to do?’ Pierce was more prudish than he had any right to be, and a small shadow of distaste had crossed his face, but he had forced out a smile and said that he was sure he could find a use for all of Rumlow’s _special_ talents. The twist of his lips as he said it, faintly condemnatory, had irked Rumlow. You hire soldiers, you get barracks talk. He’d been dismissed shortly after with a wave of Pierce’s soft, pale hand. Man, Rumlow hated that bargain-basement evil villain bullshit. If he’d wanted to usher in a new world order of millionaire lizard-man creeps with neo-Nazi tendencies, he’d have _voted_.

Here were the perks of being HYDRA, in real terms: no hypocritical bitching about patriotism, fewer inquiries into his methods, more opportunity for delivering a good, old-fashioned beatdown, less paperwork, extra cash for jobs on the side and, best of all, the hard-on that comes from fucking people over on a monumental scale.

Rumlow’s a simple guy with unsophisticated tastes.

It’s not all gravy, although his nebulous assignment to ‘gather information’ about Captain America is both easy and pleasant. The best thing about a confused, horny supersoldier with no friends is the exceptional scope for exploitation. The worst thing about supersoldiers, Rumlow categorically decides as he limps towards the extraction point, is that they make everyone else look like chumps. His left hip and lower back are on fire; he’d known there was no way of making the jump between two shipping containers in mid-air without pain, but there was something about watching Captain goddamn America leaping effortlessly over moving objects that encourages reckless imitation. Rumlow’s just on the bad side of 40 with a left knee that’s needed strapping up for a decade and the start of a back problem. He’s been a soldier for twenty years and a black ops specialist for ten. He should know better. Now something’s out of alignment, he knows it, and all he wants is a steam bath and a couple of fingers of decent bourbon.

 _Order comes from pain, Brock_ , he tells himself in a mockery of Pierce’s pompous tones as he heaves himself over a low fence and tries not to grunt on impact. Can’t show weakness in front of the boys. Still, doing stupid, mid-life crisis shit has the potential to bring advantages in the social hierarchy.

‘That was a hell of a jump!” Rogers tells Rumlow as they buckle up for take-off. There’s a gratifying murmur of agreement from the strike team. ‘I thought I’d be going it alone and I get up there, throw my shield and _then_ see the sniper on the roof.’ His tone is rueful and one of the younger guys chuckles at the self-deprecation. Rogers is really good at being likeable. Rumlow arranges his face into a casual grin.

‘We all get a pay cut if we let you die,’ he says. ‘I got a mortgage to think about, Cap.’ There’s another ripple of laughter and Rogers beams at him, flushed and running high on adrenaline. He looks young. Rumlow pulls his shirt away from his right shoulder to examine a bullet graze and studiously ignores Rogers; the kid will come to him, later, and the less Rumlow gives him now the more desperate he’ll be. He knows people, does Rumlow, but most of all he knows young men, knows the relationships that young soldiers have with veterans, understands the complex blend of respect and competition and intense, masculine attraction.

*

Rumlow stretches out on his belly and settles his left cheek on his forearms. He’s cranked the sauna up high and thrown on plenty of water for a wet, thick heat that makes it hard to breathe. This late at night there’s a reasonable chance he won’t be interrupted, so he’s stripped down nude and damp out the shower, his stinking clothes in a forgotten pile on the locker room floor. The towel underneath him is unpleasantly warm, but it cushions the slatted wooden benches. He’d rather be in a proper hammam, with smooth tiles and chilled mint tea and soft-voiced attendants to rub the tension out of his muscles. Still, if HYDRA are so cruel as to not send him to Morocco then an hour or so of poaching himself in solitude will do in a pinch.

Life is pain, so he doesn’t even get that. Almost as soon as he’s settled, steam billows out when someone opens the sauna door and immediately the temperature drops enough to chill his skin and tighten his hip up.

‘Shut the goddamn door, you heathen,’ he snipes without looking.  

‘Sorry,’ comes a deep, hesitant voice, ‘It’s only me.’ A bench creaks as Rogers sits down.

‘Throw some water on,’ Rumlow tells him, and seconds later there’s a hiss and a warm roll of heat across his body again. He hums blissfully. Christ, but saunas are the pinnacle of human invention.

‘I thought I might—’ begins Rogers, and then stops. A warm, gentle hand settles between Rumlow’s shoulder blades.

‘I’m not your prom date, Cap,’ Rumlow says with a prickle of cynical amusement, but he rather likes the idea of Rogers servicing him like a bathhouse masseur.

‘No,’ Rogers says earnestly, ‘I actually know what I’m doing. I took a course.’ He climbs up to Rumlow’s bench and sits on the edge, perching precariously on his right hip. ‘The army have a resettlement package,’ he explains, ‘if you’re getting out there’s a budget for courses and college and stuff, so you can retrain. Guess they figured that decades on ice qualified me, which is--’

‘Stop talking,’ mumbles Rumlow into his crossed arms.

‘Sorry,’ repeats Rogers, but he hasn’t moved his hand. The bench creaks alarmingly, and then Rogers swings a leg over him so he’s settled across Rumlow’s thighs. He’s naked, so Rumlow decides to give him the benefit of the doubt. _Okay, Rogers,_ he thinks, _but your hands had better be as magical as your mouth_.

Rogers starts carefully, smoothing his big hands down Rumlow’s shoulders, getting him accustomed to his touch. They’re both sweating, but Rogers oils up his hands with something that smells like almonds and his fingers glide with no unpleasant friction.  Rumlow lets himself breathe out fully, relax back down onto the bench, and Rogers makes a little approving _mmm_. Then the real work starts; Rogers begins at his right shoulder, pressing downward and in towards his spine with broad, sweeping motions like wings. He’s firm but still working gently, taking his time with each long stroke and then repeating himself on the left side. It’s not like the baths out East, with slender girls working his back two at a time with delicate little hands and giggling over his muscles and his scars. Rogers is straddling him and half-hard against the back of his thigh, using his weight to advantage and focused on his pleasure in a way that paid attendants could never imitate.  

There’s a little lift in the bench as Rogers moves up off his heels and presses one flat hand onto each of Rumlow’s shoulder blades. His shoulders crack like gunfire and he groans, loosens up. Behind him, Rogers’ dick is hard and twitching with every feather-light brush against Rumlow’s skin. Miraculously, he’s managing to stay focused on the task at hand, but Rumlow still warns him,

‘You rub off on my ass and I’ll take my belt to yours.’

‘Not helping,’ Rogers gasps, but he shifts his weight back. Rumlow indulges in a smirk into the towel, and makes a mental note to find a private place to leather the hell out of Rogers, who clearly wants a spanking so badly that it’s a little pathetic. He recalls the classified documents about Rogers’ past; father died young, obvious daddy issues, pathological need for approval from older men and, apparently, for a 1930s-style dose of corporal punishment.

Then there’s no more thinking for a while, because Rogers moves his hands to bracket Rumlow’s sides and starts working down, rolling his fingertips in circles along each rib and using the heels of his hands down the sides of Rumlow’s spine. It’s good, damn good, languorous and invigorating at the same time, and Rumlow stretches out further, reaches until his toes touch the wooden wall. When Rogers reaches his lower back he flinches down the left side. It’s a weakness, but he can’t help it.

‘You ate a pretty big impact earlier,’ says Rogers neutrally. ‘How’s the hip?’ Rumlow grits his teeth.

‘It’ll mend,’ he says curtly. ‘Bruise or a muscle strain. Stop talking.’

Rogers complies, and for several long minutes the only sound is the quiet hum of the sauna, gentle breathing and the occasional slick noise of wet hands on wet skin. _Can’t fault his technique_ , Rumlow thinks idly as Rogers smoothly rubs away the muscle spasm in his lower back. He hasn’t felt this relaxed in a while. Then Rogers curls a hand under Rumlow’s left hip, probing into the muscle with his fingertips. With no warning, he presses his other hand down on Rumlow’s ass and pulls his hip up. There’s a stab of pain and a cracking sound and he yells, and then the pain melts away and everything feels hot and soft and easy. Rogers immediately starts thumbing down into his hip, across into the swell of the top of his ass and _God, yes_ , Rumlow thinks to himself. Those clever hands work the meat of his glute and Rumlow groans and weakly pounds one fist on the bench.

‘Is that okay?’ Rogers asks, sounding quietly alarmed.

‘ _Yeah_ ,’ Rumlow manages, ‘Hell yeah, get your thumbs in there, really work it over.’ Rogers immediately complies, leaning his body weight into massaging Rumlow’s ass and thighs. By the time he starts to slow down and return to the big, gliding strokes he began with, Rumlow’s erection is making it difficult to lie flat. He rolls over between Rogers’ muscular thighs and grabs his right wrist. ‘Want to finish the job properly?’ he asks, and Rogers wraps around Rumlow’s dick with oil-soft hands and brings him off slow and easy. ‘Mmm,’ Rumlow hums in the back of his throat, head tipped back and eyes closed. ‘That’s it, right there, clever boy, _fuck_ ,’ and he shoots over Rogers’ hands and his own chest.

‘You did good, Cap,’ Rumlow says, feeling blissed out and generous and pleased by Rogers’ blue-eyed, open-mouthed look of sudden, intense gratitude. When he reaches down for Rogers’ dick the guy just has to thrust into his fingers a couple of times before he comes with a shuddery, thankful moan.

*

Three days later, Rumlow is summoned to Pierce’s office and he marches in without a hint of a limp and takes up an insultingly relaxed pose in front of the big desk. He feels good, knows he looks good; his stance is wide, his hands are clasped easily around his belt buckle and his shoulders are loose and dropped back to show his chest to advantage. _Look and weep, you dried up old prick_ , he thinks savagely as Pierce turns to him and almost imperceptibly wrinkles up his nose.

‘Ah, Rumlow,’ he says. ‘How is your surveillance going?’

‘As planned,’ Rumlow tells him calmly, deliberately not giving him anything.

‘I can use any information you dig up about known associates, routine visits, love life,’ presses Pierce, obviously pissed off that a full and subservient report isn’t immediately forthcoming. Rumlow licks his top lip and rocks back and forth on his heels for a second.

‘Look,’ he says. ‘I’ll be honest. Something’s come up that I want to pursue before I give you a full report. Just let me look into Rogers a bit longer, and I’ll get it on your desk as soon as I can.’

 _Politicians_ , thinks Rumlow as he’s waved out of the office. _Couldn’t find their ass with both hands_. He thinks about the cartel offer, and the nice bank account in Malta, and the contact in Thailand, and the mercenary thing on the back burner, shuffles through his options like cards. In the elevator, he pulls out his phone.

 _Meet me in 10_ , he texts, _Where we agreed before_ , and when the elevator doors ping open he whistles his way through the hallways, thumbing at his belt buckle in anticipation.


End file.
